Golden Vanity
by LadyJanelly
Summary: For vanity's sake, Glorfindel falls to the Balrog. What happens when an elf, reborn, finds himself less than he was. Glorfindel Erestor Slash. AU.
1. Death and rebirth

Title: Golden Vanity

Chapter: 1/?

Author: LadyJanelly

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

Author's note: Sorry, all I know about LoTR I learned from   
fanfiction, the movies, and an hour or so of research on Library of   
Arda. Much thanks to my Beta Nienna for making this fic a better piece than it was. 

I am have deleted this story, and am reposting the corrected chapters. Thank you for putting up with me, and Enjoy.

* * *

He was their golden lord; a golden lord for the House of the Golden Flower. Beautiful as the dawn he was, and bold as the sunlight glinting off of the keen edge of his sword. Hair the color of autumn wheat spilled down his broad armored shoulders, the warm strands framing a face that none could say was less than fair, and few would say was less than perfect. 

He was their golden lord, and they loved him, these scattered and frightened refugees of a dying city. They trusted him. With the red glow of Morgoth's forces coming closer, they believed him when he shouted at them to go, to flee. They trusted him, of all elves, to survive whatever would come next around the narrow pass. They trusted him to be victorious.

* * *

Blood seeped down the inside of his armor; wet and hot. The Balrog's sword had not pierced through, but it had mangled the golden protection, and with every move it cut into the flesh of his side. He could feel himself weakening, his sight dimming, the weight of his sword growing, but could not accept that he might not vanquish this creature of darkness. 

The great whip cut through the air, pulling back for another strike, trailing black flame in its wake. The smoke and the stench of the creature threatened to choke him, blind him. He could hear no sound save for the roar of the creature, the overwhelming hiss and crackle of its fiery body.

The golden lord's sword flashed up and into the creature's heart. Good steel shattered from the sudden heat, a crack that echoed down the long chasm. The beast staggered, and the whip came down, hotter than campfire or hearth, hotter than the summer sun or the blacksmith's forge. The tip slashed the beautiful face, burning as it passed, so hot that flesh turned to ash at the touch. It burned even into the bone of his cheek and jaw. The flames passed a thumb's length from his right eye.

So sudden was the strike that his mind could not register the pain. As the servant of Morgoth stumbled back, began to tumble from the cliff, all the golden lord knew was that he had been struck, scarred, marred.

The blow to his face was not the worst of his injuries, yet it was the first that he reached to touch. It was the one he was touching when the fiery hand reached out, and as the Balrog fell, it was his last thought before he was pulled over the cliff's edge. And then he was falling, and burning, the creature holding him tight against its chest. He heard his own scream, smelled the burning of his own flesh. The rocks came rushing up at them, and all was blackness, quiet and stillness. There was nothing.

* * *

He woke to pain. For long minutes he could only lay there, afraid to even touch his face. He knew not where he was, curled like an infant, naked as the day he was first born. Breath by breath the hurt faded, healing as he lay there. He became aware of the chirping of birds, the cool embrace of the forest. 

Trembling fingers reached up, tracing over the scar. It marked him from the outside edge of his right eye, down his cheek and into the muscle and bone of his jaw. This was no shallow wound from a sword point; it was wider than his thumb, slick-feeling and too-smooth. Around that was the burn. Most of that side of his face was dimpled, bubbled, pocked and melted.

The golden lord wept for his loss, curled in upon himself on the forest floor. As he wept, understanding filtered into him, as if in a dream, yet he knew he did not sleep.

The first that he understood was that great time had passed, time in which he should have taken some part, could have accomplished great things. He understood that his vanity, and only that, had been the cause of his fall. Had he reached for the wound at his side, he would have seen the hand that reached for him, the hand that dragged him down.

A sense of duty filled him, and his hand drew away from his scar. He knew, without being told, where he would be now, at this moment, had he never fallen. He could sense the forces of evil, the weight of it hovering in the air over the horizon, a blight upon his newly reborn spirit. He could feel the pull of his duty, of his oath of service to Turgon, drawing him there. Without the words to explain his understanding, he knew he would be standing not beside Eärendil, but beside Eärendil's son. At this moment, had he not sacrificed his immortal life for the sake of fleeting vanity, he would be guarding the back of the Perendhel as he strode to war against the re-awakened darkness.

He fingered the long ugly scar again, and he had no bitterness towards the Valar who had left him with such a mark. It was not a punishment; he understood that, but rather a warning against the re-emergence of his vanity.

"Never again," he vowed to the forest. There was no answer, but he knew he had been heard.

Barefoot, naked, unarmed, he broke into a long loping stride, moving silent through the forest. A vision called to him, a dark-haired elf, with grey eyes and the weight of duty gathered around his shoulders like a cloak. A name whispered into his mind, to call his destination by. That name was Elrond.

For hours he ran, and hours became days. He was an elf in the prime of his conditioning, and the air came easily to his lungs. He came to a place where a path cut the forest, some deer-trail, easy to miss. He followed it for a ways, since it flowed with his own direction. Trampled ground ahead of him slowed his steps for the first time.

Blood splattered the leaves, red and bright. An arrow lay half-covered by dead leaves. The fletching was elven, clean and straight. The tip was broken off, and around the shaft was smeared the black blood of orcs.

His heart pounded wild in his chest at the sight, and he continued down the path, feet moving with swift steps even as bright eyes scanned the floor for tracks. Naked, weaponless, he still could not, would not, allow elves to be attacked without acting on their behalf.

He burst into a clearing, and his heart ached to find that he need not have hurried. Bodies lay scattered around, the fair forms hacked by brutal weapons, their skin torn and bruised. He trembled, and covered his eyes with his hands for a moment, then moved to begin tending the bodies of the fallen.

_Forgive me, cousin,_ he thought as he slipped the armor off of a tall warrior. They were all soldiers, and he imagined they had been quite handsome in their blue and silver livery. He would not leave the valiant fallen naked, but he did find enough clothing in their packs to clothe himself. He took from each a piece of armor for himself to wear, and some small token that their families may use to identify them with. The battle that he saw in his mind would not allow the time to bring the bodies home, so he did the best that he could, for the dead and for the living.

With care he arrayed the bodies together atop a mound of dry wood that he gathered, and using the flint and steel of one soldier, he lit their pyre.

They had carried no spare boots, and Glorfindel would not send the dead to Mandos' hall in need of footwear, so when he at last departed the scene, dressed, armed, armored, his feet were still bare beneath the edge of his greaves.


	2. Boots

Special thanks to Nevermind for motivating me to get a beta-reader. It's amazing what she's done for my writing. Let me know what you think of the changes if you get a chance.

Also thanks to Sar for sending me my first lovely flame. I feel like a real slash writer now. My day is complete.

Author's note: Thanks to Nienna for all the work she has done to keep me as canon as possible. I couldn't have done it without her. All remaining errors are completely my own.

* * *

"To your begetting day," Elrond lifted the tin mug filled with dry white wine towards the roof of the tent in a toast. The words, said for the first time five years ago when young Erestor arrived at Gil-Galad's camp, had become a yearly tradition. Elrond had disbelieved him at first; this too-young elfling with his serious dark eyes. That he had arrived on the very day of his majority to fight against the darkness seemed ridiculous. The youth had brought nothing but a battered old sword, the clothes on his back and a stubbornness that even Elrond found maddening. 

_"I am needed." The young eyes had been so calm, and determined. "My brother is dead, and my father with him. Their swords have fallen, mine must be taken up." _

_None of Elrond's arguments had served to sway him, and the young one had insisted that he was no longer a child to be protected, but an adult with a right to defend what he loved. _

_"If I am turned away from Gil-galad's host, I will find my place among Oropher's, or among the men if I must." And there was no doubt in those words, no sign of an empty boast. He was not threatening, he was only stating the truth of his intentions. In the end Elrond had sent him off to get proper weaponry and armor, a feeling of dread that he was sending an elfling to die or worse against an army without pity or mercy. He had no one to spare for guarding the youth night and day, nor way to send him safely home. At least this way, he knew Erestor was as safe as any other of his warriors, and not less. _

Erestor smiled with the lord and returned the gesture. "And to a hasty end to this war, Eru willing." He raised the cup and took a deep sip, coughing at the bite.

Elrond suppressed a chuckle. For all his pride, his maturity and his growing skill on the battlefield, the young one still had difficulty with strong drink and dry wines. He felt an ache of fatherly affection, paired with the regret of not having enough time to watch this one, to help him, to keep him safe and see that he was well. The moments to share a cup of wine each year was all that he could spare.

"You make us all proud, Erestor," Elrond told him. "Go, rejoin your troop. I am sure your fellows will wish to celebrate with you also. I have taken up enough of your special day

Erestor finished his wine and bowed again, then left the half-elf to his piles of papers and maps and plans.

* * *

The elf was sitting on a log in the shadows near Elrond's tent as Erestor was leaving, his face hidden in the hood of his cloak. It struck the young elf as odd, that this one had not chosen the company of his fellows, or the comfort of one of the campfires. He looked closer, puzzled, and disliked what he saw. 

Blood spattered the other elf's clothing, and did not look like any effort had been made to clean it. Strands of blonde hair showed at the edges of the hood, marking him as separate from the dark-haired Noldor host.

The warrior sat still, unmoving, his head bowed, fingers laced where they rested at his knees. Erestor's dark eyes followed their course downwards, and blinked when he got to the elf's feet.

Slender feet rested naked against the earth. They were dirty and scratched, and Erestor forgot his plans to celebrate his begetting day with his company-mates in light of this stranger's evident need.

Light footsteps brought him over to the seated elf. "Cousin?" His voice was gentle. The face beneath the hood shifted, but still no light spilled beneath it to show the stranger's face.

"Cousin, where are your boots?" He placed his hand upon the blonde's shoulder.

"Lost." A soft voice replied. "I know not where."

The words had a strange roll to them, an accent that took a moment to place. He frowned, and then realized that it was because the stranger was speaking Sindarin, but as if it was not his first language, as if he had spoken Quenya more often in his life.

_How old might one be to speak so? _Erestor wondered. His bright mind gripped onto the puzzle, turning it over, trying to see all sides. _How far apart must an elf have lived to still keep the older fashions of speech? Has he come from some distant haven, some place far from war and blood to join this fight?_ He remembered his own first days, the near-overwhelming chaos of it, the noise and confusion. What would have happened to him, if not for Elrond?

Erestor shook his head. This would not do. With a quick glance down to the stranger's feet to estimate the size, he clasped him on the shoulder again. "Wait here, cousin. I will return with boots for you."


	3. Battle

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 3/?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: pg-13 (may change later)

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence, AU

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

Author's note: Thanks to Nienna for all of her hard work keeping this fic as canon as possible. I claim full responsibility for all remaining errors.

* * *

The taste of blood filled Erestor's mouth, though he could not remember taking a wound there. His shield was gone, and the arm that had carried it broken beneath the elbow. An orc came screaming towards Elrond, and Erestor cut it down with his sword. The light misting rain would not stop, and it made the ground underfoot treacherous. Steam rose from the shoulders of the warriors around him, the heat of their bodies contrasting with the cool of the air.

_"Are you afraid, young one?" The warrior had asked him the night before, the blonde who gave his name as Varyar, _Protector

_"Aye," he had replied, passing over the boots he had managed to talk the supplies officer into giving him. There seemed no reason to lie. He would be a fool to be unafraid, and he was no fool, he was a blooded warrior. Five years of fighting had notched his blades and taught him to be strong. He was afraid but he would not fail._

_The stranger pulled the boots onto his feet, and began lacing them tight. "I would not be here if the forces of light were not meant to succeed," Varyar told him, not looking up. "Keep close to Elrond, and fight well."_

Erestor's boots slipped in the mud and he almost went to the ground, catching his balance at the last moment. His heart beat a frantic rhythm in his chest. If he fell he would be trampled by friend and foe alike.

A warg snarled and snapped at his face. The spearman at his side stabbed at it, and Erestor slashed at it. The beast's massive jaws closed around the blade of his sword as it died, almost bearing him down to the ground again as it fell.

With a controlled panic rising in his chest, Erestor struggled with the pinned weapon, wincing as steel grated against the monster's teeth. An orc cackled with glee as it rushed in on the unarmed elf. Time slowed for him. He could see the rusty axe rise into the air, droplets of rain sliding from the edge. He knew that his life was finished, that there was nothing he could do, no defense he could make.

The orcish ax began its descent. His fear faded in the face of his life's end. He had mattered. He had done his part. He had no regrets.

And then between himself and the orc appeared a shield, the back of a warrior, long golden hair streaming down his shoulders. _Varyar,_ Erestor thought, as he watched with awe as the elf lopped the head off of the orc. The return strike of that bright blade cleaved the warg's head in half and Erestor's sword came free in his hand.

"Keep you close to Elrond!" That strange accented voice commanded him. The blonde spared him a glance over his armored shoulder. The older elf's face was almost hidden behind the steel of his helmet, and yet eyes as blue as the skies in spring met Erestor's own dark ones.

The world shifted around him. For a heartbeat there was no war, there was no threat, there was no fear.

"Go!" Varyar shouted again, pointing towards where Elrond and the High-King fought against the twisted servants of darkness. The warrior turned then, releasing Erestor from his gaze. The younger elf almost cried out in his distress. With that contact gone he felt somehow lessened, diminished. He felt incomplete.

In a rush the world came back to him, the clash of weapons, the misting rain, the screams of dying foes and allies. He put Elrond to his back and strove with all of his strength to make his lord proud, and to obey the words of the blonde warrior.

----------------

The clash of battle was an unbroken din of chaos around Glorfindel. His arms ached from the weight of sword and shield, but the feeling was as familiar to him as sunlight on his face. He felt a comfort in the exertions of battle, the struggle for survival. It was what he had been born for, it seemed, and reborn for too.

He tried to forget the look on the young warrior's face; Erestor, who had gifted him with much-needed boots. Awe had shone in those dark eyes, and it frightened him. Was it vanity that convinced him that he could save more than Elrond, that he should even try? Was it vanity that caused his heart to tremble at the look of adoration in the young Erestor's eyes?

He felt his fighting style changing. It was no less effective, but he chose not to add the artistic flourishes that the Glorfindel who fell at Gondolin would have used. He became sharp, clean. Not a movement wasted, not a gesture added for those who might see him fight.

He closed his mind and his heart to everything except for protecting the son of Eärendil. He lost himself in the dance of thrust and parry. He would not be known as the hero of this battle. He would not be the shining lord nor the golden flower.

Vanity would not be his downfall again.


	4. A feast of crows

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity. AU.

A/N: The chapter title is the name of a book coming soon by George R R Martin. If you havent read the Game of Thrones series yet, do so at your earliest convienience. You wont regret it.

8-8-8-8-8-

The battle was over and the wind danced over the corpse-strewn plain as if it too was looking for its own among the corpses. Men and elves worked to find any who had survived the chaos of that last day's fighting. Bodies were being moved into neat lines for their final ceremonies; men to one side and elves to the other. The air was thick with smoke from the bonfires that were consuming the piled remnants of Sauron's filthy minions.

Erestor had joined the searchers, his broken arm splinted and bound to his side. There had not been enough poppy-dust for all of the wounded, and what there was had been used for those whose agonized thrashings may have cost them their lives. His arm hurt, but he had pushed the sensation away. He would not acknowledge it, though it lingered at the edges of his awareness.

A crow screeched at him, its harsh voice almost sounding like a laugh as he shooed the thing away with his good hand. He had tried to stop thinking about anything, just moving from body to body, touching each one, searching for some sign of life. There was an ache inside of him that had nothing to do with his injuries. They had denied the dark one his victory, though the cost had been high--Gil-galad and so many others lost, dead. Elves should not die. Each body he turned over, each broken corpse that he searched for pulse and breath was an eternity of happiness, joy, creativity, kindness, cut short before it had barely begun.

A strand of golden hair caught his eye, and it felt as if there was no longer room enough in his chest for his heart to beat. Using his good arm, he pulled one orcish corpse, then another one, off of the fair form. With frantic speed he searched for a pulse, and found none. Just as he thought his heart would break, his soul would shatter, his light would fade from the world, he saw the eyes of this dead elf. They were the green of deep water, and not the blue of spring skies, and he knew this was not Varyar.

Relief brought him to his knees, and for the first time he allowed himself to feel the pain, exhaustion and fear of the past five years. While he was not the only elf on the field of death and destruction, he was very alone when he bowed his head, covered his face with his hand, and wept.

--------------------

Glorfindel tied a strip of cloth over the wound on his upper arm. He felt safe here on the hillside, overlooking the site of the battle, tending to his wounds. There were none to see him here, none to know him. He would hear no words of praise for his actions on the field this day; he would have no temptation to feel flattered. He knew he was hiding, up here and alone, but it was much safer to suffer the shame of his cowardice than to risk the consequences of his vanity again.

He could see the tent Elrond had gone to from here, and he watched it, though the call of his destiny weighed lighter on his shoulders now that the fighting was done. Should some trouble arise, he was sure he could be back at Elrond's side in time to combat any threat.

From his vantage point, he could see young Erestor, and he watched as the dark-haired elf moved across the field, searching for something, someone. It had been half a day since the last time anyone, elf or man, had been found still alive on that field. It was a sad thing to watch, knowing there was so little hope that any may still live there.

He grieved for the young elf's pain, and more so when Erestor found the unmoving form under the pile of orc corpses.

_Who was he?_ Glorfindel wondered as Erestor fell to his knees, as he covered his face with one hand, as his strong shoulders shook with sobs. _Friend? Lover, brother, father? _His heart mourned with the young one, and he yearned to climb down the slope, to go to him, bring him what comfort he may. Movement on the field stopped him before he could rise, and he watched as Elrond moved across the bloodied plain to Erestor's side.

"Erestor." Elrond's voice was gentle, his concern for the younger elf as real as the hand he rested on the cotton-clad shoulder. He was not reassured to find the wounded elf on the battlefield instead of sleeping on a cot in the healing tents, but Erestor had never been easy to command except in combat.

"I cannot find him," Erestor whispered, looking up at Elrond. His eyes were wide with suppressed distress, and exhaustion had left dark smudges underneath them. "His name is Varyar, and I cannot find him."

Elrond frowned, and lowered himself to Erestor's level, though he crouched there instead of kneeling in the dark mud.

"Erestor...I kept the lists of all of our warriors. I do not remember such a name." He was careful to not claim that the elf in question did not exist. Still, the statement seemed to add to the dark-haired elf's distress. Erestor gripped Elrond's arm with his good hand.

"And yet he was here, and his armor was in the fashion of Lindon, not of Lothlorien or the Greenwood. He saved me. He saved you. I saw him. I have to find him." The young elf's shoulders shuddered as if a wind of ill-tidings had passed through him. "His hair was gold and his eyes were blue, and he wore the boots that I gave to him..."

A crow, annoyed as the conversation's volume continued to rise, squawked its displeasure and hopped away. It had fed too well this day to fly.

Elrond let Erestor speak, then pushed a tangled strand of hair back from Erestor's face and wiped a muddy tear from his cheek. The streak that was left clean was as pale as a scar in comparison to the rest of his grimy skin. "I am sorry, young one. I only know that I was never under attack from the side that you guarded, and that whenever my gaze fell upon you that you were engaging some enemy in battle, even with your shield gone and your arm broken. You would not yield."

Erestor shook his head. "He was here. I must find him."

"They are still tallying the dead, and the living still report to their commanders. I swear to you the records will be examined. If he was here, he will be found." And then he gave his voice the tone that served so well in the healing houses or on the field of battle. "But he will not be found by you today, unless his bunk is next to yours, do you understand me?"

Dark hair veiled Erestor's face as he nodded his acceptance. "Aye, sir." Elrond gripped his shoulder for one moment more, and then offered his hand to help Erestor stand.

"I am pleased to hear it." And the healer in him was pleased to see the young elf rise without much assistance, and stand steady on his feet. Together, they trudged across the field to the healing tents.

"Erestor," Elrond began as they walked, coming at last to his reason for going after the young soldier. "I leave in a fortnight for Imladris. I am going to build a permanent haven there." Erestor looked up, dark eyes meeting grey ones as he listened. "I want you there. Will you

come with me, join my guard, and help ensure the safety of any who

needs a refuge?"

The younger elf winced. "I am flattered, Lord Elrond, but..."

Elrond cocked his head, watching this unexpected reaction.

"Please, if there is any other who would, who could do this, please

take another. I would be honored to go with you, to give you my loyalty,

but if I have the luxury to do so, I will put aside my sword and fight no

more."

How like Erestor to make even rewarding him a trial, Elrond

thought. The elf-lord was forced to smile. "I will find a place for you,

Erestor. So long as there is no need, I will not ask you to take up arms. Can you be satisfied with this promise?"

Erestor nodded. "Aye, I can be satisfied with that."

"Then I am pleased to welcome you as one of Imladris' first residents." It pleased Elrond's heart to say those words, to know his friendship with the strong young elf would continue.

Erestor smiled, and the warmth in his eyes was like sunshine breaking

over the horizon. "Thank you, my lord. I will not disappoint you."

Somehow Elrond could not doubt those words.


	5. Hidden

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Elrond, Erestor and the rest of the warriors that remained of the High-King's host returned to Imladris, the secret refuge where the mothers, sisters, and children of those fighting in the wars had been hidden. Like a shadow, Glorfindel followed them. In his desire to remain unseen, he became silent even by the measure of elves. He learned to move through the forest without breaking a twig or leaving a single footprint. He could walk hooded through a crowded campsite as if he belonged there; drawing not a single puzzled look from the warriors taking their rest.

From afar he watched Erestor's tearful reunion with those he had left behind and Elrond's shy greeting of a delicate silver-haired elleth. His own loneliness was an ache in his chest, yet he accepted it as a penance for the foolishness of his former life. For the first time he regretted all the years he had spent as a shallow lord of Gondolin, choosing his companions for their beauty or their prestige. None of his memories of that time were strong enough, true enough, to keep him warm in his solitude.

The settlement grew into and upon the sloping cliff-face beside the waterfalls, a beautiful thing brought into being from Elrond's vision through the efforts of all the valley's residents. It appeared to Glorfindel that Elrond had taken to heart the lessons learned from his grandmother's flight from Gondolin. A maze of secret passages, so visible while the walls were being put up, riddled the house to where they met up with the natural caves of the mountainside. Should the worst ever come to pass, the refuge would not become a trap. There would always be a way out.

He satisfied his call to duty by patrolling the forests on foot, searching out small pockets of evil and crushing them. Glorfindel of Gondolin would have felt the thrill of victory with each kill, the joy of success. This new Glorfindel felt only a vague sensation of satisfaction before he went back to patrolling, to searching for the next threat to his lord.

Denying himself became his life. He ate what others left, he wore what none wanted. He took as little from the nascent city as he could survive on, and sometimes in those first difficult years he made do with roots and berries for much of the time. He took his clothing from the back of the wardrobe in the soldiers' barracks or from the rag pile. As Imladris began to grow and thrive he was able to take day-old bread from the kitchens late at night and filch his garments from the laundry rooms.

He found a small cave behind the passages in the wall, and made for himself a home there. He lined a hollow with straw, and covered it with an old rug that had been stored away in favor of a newer one and that became his bed.

Day by day, with each self-inflicted denial, it became easier to accept his humble existence. He began to find small joys in simple things, and not the gilded comfort and opulence that Glorfindel of Gondolin could not have lived without. In some ways it was easier. Without his pride to protect he had no pressure to be seen, to show the world his beauty, his courage, his skills.

He found no happiness in his own accomplishments, but he knew immense pleasure from watching the advancement of another. Erestor, the gentle elf who had gifted him with boots that first day of his rebirth, was taken by Elrond as a scribe. While the house was being built Glorfindel would see the dark-eyed young elf working as hard and long as any other through the day, then at night his silhouette in his tent by candle's light, working deep into the night. Afterwards, he kept long hours in his office; arriving before Elrond most mornings and leaving after his lord in the evening. Decades passed, and Erestor was promoted from scribe to Elrond's personal secretary; quite an accomplishment for an elf so young.

If Erestor had been fair as an elf on the cusp of adulthood, the years and responsibility made him even more so. The childish lines of his face refined into the clean strength of an adult face. His cheekbones became more defined, his eyes bright and clear, his lips full and soft, his skin so pale against the jet of his hair. From afar Glorfindel appreciated this grace, this beauty, but he knew it was not for him. Erestor's companionship, perhaps even his affection, was another luxury he had no claim to, no right to ask for.

Others noticed Erestor, of course. Glorfindel could see the attempts to gain the dark one's favor; small gifts and large, extravagant dinners and little romantic gestures. He wanted the counselor to be happy, to find someone who appreciated his wit and kindness, his beauty and his charm. As much as he hated himself for it, a part of him was still relieved every time Erestor would reject some new suitor with polite words and no warmth.

The decades turned into a century and more. Elrond took the shy silver-haired elleth to wife. Erestor said goodbye to his mother and sister as they took ship and left the world they had known. Children were born to the lord of the land, two bright and adventurous boys.

Erestor was given the task of their education and Glorfindel watched as they spent years studying from books, from nature, from the tales older elves would tell. For the first time since the last battle, Erestor took up sword and shield and taught the elflings their first lessons in weapon-work. Despite their constant mischief, the affection that Erestor held for them was obvious. With the guidance and support of their tutor and their parents, the twins grew proud and strong as they neared adulthood.

Time passed, and as the passages behind the walls were not needed for escape, and were never a shorter way from any place to another, the elves of the valley forgot about their existence. In the dark places of the house and in the lonely stretches of the forest around it, Glorfindel felt himself becoming less than an elf. He was an apparition, a manifestation of his duty, something that was not to be seen, and not to be touched.

One small spark of life was left to him, one bright joy. When his eyes became unfocused at night, when he began to slip into reverie, a vision of a dark eyed young soldier would come to him, asking him soft questions in a voice filled with kindness. He existed for his duty to Elrond. He lived for his love of Erestor.


	6. Unwelcome

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

* * *

The door to Elrond's office was open by a hand's breadth, a signal that the lord of Rivendell was occupied, but unopposed to interruption. On any other day Erestor would have joined him without hesitation, to listen in on whatever report Elrond was receiving before giving his lord his own.

On this day however, the other voice from within stayed his hand and he stood outside, intrigued but reluctant to face this particular elf.

"...we followed the trail, and it led to an orc encampment, less than a day's ride from the valley," Herenecco was reporting. This was something more than a routine report, and perhaps something that Erestor should know. He entered the room with a bow to his lord and a slighter nod to Elrond's captain of the guard.

"Please, do not let me interrupt." He took a seat by the window, setting himself apart from the conversation to listen but not participate.

Elrond gestured to the dark-haired captain, and Herenecco continued with his report. "They were twenty to our nine, and we waited until they began to make their morning camp before we attacked them. They were all destroyed. We suffered minor injuries and no loss of life."

Elrond pondered a moment, and Herenecco took the chance to glance at Erestor, something hungry and hurting in his spruce-green eyes. Erestor chose to watch Elrond, and pretended to have missed that strange look the captain had given him.

"You said you followed the trail away from Imladris to where the orcs were camped. How deeply did they penetrate our border?" The lord's voice was grim as he thought through the implications, but Herenecco shook his head.

"They never came closer than they were where we caught them. The trail to them was not made by orcs, but by something else. We followed a line of broken twigs and bent grass without ever finding a single footprint." Elrond's eyebrow arched at this declaration.

"Something has come close to this haven, orc or otherwise." He rubbed his temples and sighed. "Have all of your patrols watching for this intruder. Be it friend or foe, I will not tolerate an unknown element traveling free within this land."

Herenecco bowed and rose to his feet. "Thank you, captain," Elrond spoke, "That will be all."

The handsome elf bowed again to Elrond, and then with one last lingering look at Erestor, he stepped out the door.

Erestor moved to the chair the other had vacated. The pair of dark-haired elves sat in silence a moment, and then a slight smile tugged at the corners of Elrond's lips. "Another unexplainable occurrence for your files, Erestor?"

Erestor shrugged. "Perhaps. I would like to talk to others in the patrol, especially their tracker." For almost two hundred years he had played with this puzzle, taking careful notes of supplies missing, enemies killed and secret threats uncovered. _Twenty orcs..._the most kills in a day ever attributed to this mystery-being had been eight. _Had twenty been too many for it to fight?_ But if the guardians had been led to the large party of orcs, that action seemed to imply that the apparition was no spirit. _Limits, _Erestor pondered. _A thing may be defined by its limits, by what it cannot do._ His agile mind began to plan how he would cross-reference his data, excited by what he may discover.

Elrond cleared his throat, and Erestor's full attention returned to him. He knew well the look in his lord's eyes. "I take it the dinner that Herenecco had planned for the two of you did not go as well as he had hoped?"

The shift in conversation was not unexpected. "He was not the one," Erestor murmured, looking away. He knew his friend only wanted to see him happy. Part of the reason he had accepted the invitation at all was that he knew Elrond worried less if he made some effort to be social on his off-duty hours.

"Are you sure you gave him a chance?" His lord asked. "He seems a good elf, loyal and brave."

Erestor passed the report he had brought over Elrond's desk, hoping he would be distracted. The arch of an eyebrow showed him he his hopes had been in vain. His lord took the scroll and set it aside without even glancing at it.

"I am not saying he is lacking in some way, or that he is anything less than you name him, but he is not the one my heart yearns for."

Elrond's grey eyes met Erestor's ebony ones. "Elves were not meant to spend eternity alone, Erestor. I only want you to be happy. I only want to see you find such joy as Celebrian and I share. You must open your life sometime."

Erestor nodded, not breaking eye contact. "I will, Elrond. I promise you. My heart is not closed. When I find the one I search for, I will know him. Until then, it is cruelty to pretend that there is a possibility when none exists." He recognized that his tone had turned pleading. He wanted his lord, his friend, to understand that he did hunger for a love. He did search for a love, but it was no elf that he had met.

Elrond sighed and shook his head, the look in his eyes tired and sad, resigned. "Very well. Just promise me that you will keep your possibilities open. Please do not judge them so swiftly that you miss the thing you are most searching for."

Erestor smiled and nodded. "You have my promise. Now, about this report..."

---------

Outside the door, Herenecco grinned like an elfling. Hope; he had hope again. He understood now why Erestor was alone, even if it seemed that Elrond did not. No one before had the nerve to persist after the counselor's calm rejection. None had taken the effort to show him how very much he mattered to them. A plot began to form in his head. _One night..._ if he could just get Erestor to relax and accept him for one night, he was sure he could prove to the fair one that what he had waited for was before him all along.

He hurried down the hallway, too excited to retain a graceful stride. In his head he began to create a list of things he needed; _a lure to bring Erestor to his side, a place to share his company, fine wines and delicacies, sweet oils and, most important, a bottle of the lover's potion that the human apothecary in the nearby settlement sold._ He went to his offices and reworked the schedule, giving himself time to get the potion and then return under the guise of an extended patrol. _In less than a fortnight_, he thought, _Erestor will be mine..._


	7. Dinner, song, wine

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 7/?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: R

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

The setting was perfect, Herenecco thought; a small candle-lit table on one of the terraces near where Erestor took his evening walks. It was close enough to that route to let Erestor see the "bait" and come investigate, yet close enough to his own rooms that it made sense for him to be dining here. If things progressed as he wished, he could take Erestor back to those rooms later. The only uncertain factor was the weather. The air had cooled that day and the clouds were falling, threatening to become fog.

"More wine?" His companion nodded and smiled, even though he had already drunk enough to bring a delightful blush to his cheeks. Perhaps if he had never met Erestor, this seduction would have been more than a ruse. He was not blind to the attractiveness of the elf across from him. Given a few more years he would be a striking specimen, with his father's grey eyes and dark hair. And yet no matter how generous his mature looks were to him, Elladan would never be Erestor with his flashing eyes and sweet-looking lips.

Like an actor on his mark, Erestor appeared. He was still dressed in his formal robes as he took the long route from the large dining hall to his offices. It was his habit, the guard captain knew, to get a few hours worth of work done in the evenings to give himself more time during the day to spend on the twins' education.

Herenecco saw Erestor pause, and he refilled Elladan's wine glass. Over the dark-haired youngster's shoulder he met the secretary's eyes, and gave him a small smirk before turning back to his tablemate.

The effect was like dangling a feather before a kitten. Erestor did not seem to resist as he stepped over, and Herenecco fancied that he saw jealousy in those dark eyes. "Elladan?" Authority filled Erestor's voice. Despite the fact that less than two centuries separated their ages, guilt flickered across the youngster's face when he looked up. They were very much teacher and pupil at that moment.

"Sir?" Elladan fumbled to his feet, embarrassed and awkward.

"Do you and I not have sword lessons tomorrow at dawn?" It was all Herenecco could do to not lick his lips. Erestor's pride was beautiful. It would make his victory all the more sweet when love softened the stern lines of the young elf's face and Erestor became his.

Elladan nodded and Erestor narrowed his eyes. "Should you not be getting a good night's rest then?"

The young elf coughed. "Of course, sir." He bowed a quick sketch of a bow to Herenecco, and one to Erestor, and then he hurried off to his rooms.

-----------

Glorfindel braided back his hair, his hands sure despite the lack of a mirror. When he was done he tied the end with a small strip of leather. With practiced motions he pulled the guard's cloak over his shoulders and adjusted the hood to hide his face. The weather promised to be foggy this evening, a condition that allowed him more freedom to move among the residents of Imladris. No one would wonder why he wore a hood on a night like this. Fog, rain, gentle snow; all of these were like a holiday for him, a time when he could go out into the world of elves, safe in his disguise.

He had practiced a few short lines until he felt sure his accent was gone from them, but he still could not hold a conversation for fear of discovery. He could manage "yes sir, no sir, right away, sir," in case the cloaked guardsman he was impersonating needed to speak, but he had little confidence in a longer discussion.

He considered his options as he moved through the narrow tunnels that led from the cave he had claimed as his own to the hidden passage in an alcove near the gardens. A trip to the kitchens was mandatory; his small larder was almost empty, and his bread more moldy than not. _And after that, perhaps a stroll near the Hall of Fire, just close enough to hear the music or story-telling?_ The idea of the rare indulgence brought a smile to his lips.

---------

Erestor watched Elladan head towards the family wing of the house. The young elf swayed as he walked, and his steps were uncertain. It was obvious the heir to Imladris had overindulged this evening. A voice in the back of Erestor's head suggested that he had arrived just in time. What sort of misfortune could have befallen the young one if his arrival had not been so well-timed?

Herenecco chuckled after the young elf had left. "Not only do you deny me your company, but now you patrol the gardens, insuring that I dine alone?" Erestor wanted to turn away and leave, but propriety made him pause. Had he misjudged the situation? He disliked being rude to anyone without adequate cause.

The smile faded from Herenecco's voice, leaving nothing but gentle entreaty. "Will you join me? One glass of wine is all that I ask to share with you; a glass of wine and nothing more." The guard captain poured Erestor a glass while he waited for an answer. It was so much easier to agree than to find a reason to argue.

Erestor settled onto the stone bench Elladan had so recently vacated. One glass of wine, what harm could it do? He took the glass that Herenecco passed to him, grateful that the guardsman did not try to brush his fingers when they were close. He marveled at the intensity in the spruce-green eyes. He sipped from the glass, and it took all of his skills in diplomacy not to grimace at the bitterness of the aftertaste. That Elladan could have endured enough of the stuff to get drunk off of it was beyond his comprehension.

Herenecco cocked his head at Erestor's lack of reaction. "It's a human vintage. Some consider it an acquired taste." He smiled, and there was a light in his eyes that Erestor could not place. "There is a richness to the flavor, though it's hard to name. Try another sip..."


	8. Herenecco's mistake

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 8/?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: pg-13

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence, attempted non-con

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

--------------

Herenecco struggled to hold down the thrashing elf beneath him. _He's ruining it!_ He thought with something akin to panic. Using brute force he managed to get both of Erestor's wrists pinned with one of his hands. Straddling the secretary's lithe hips, he used his weight to keep the drug-weakened body against the ground.

_Valar, so beautiful..._ he thought, holding the younger elf's head still by his hair and just taking in the sight of him for a moment. Erestor panted for air, his lips parted, his face flushed from his exertions. Dark hair was spread over the ground behind his head as if disarrayed by lovemaking. His eyes were unfocused, and it almost gave the impression that he was in reverie. It was so easy for his would-be lover to imagine that his resistance was brought on by some dream in which Herenecco was not the lord of his heart and his body.

"Shhh..." he whispered, trying to soothe the fear from Erestor's fine features. "Let me pleasure you. Let me love you." He leaned low, his tongue flicking out to taste the wine-darkened lips before pressing a hungry kiss to them.

"No..." Erestor moaned before his lips were covered, his words muffled. He struggled against the guardian's grip, but the powder that had been put in his wine had stolen his strength, and he had no chance of repelling these advances. Herenecco kissed him with firm pressure of his lips, covering Erestor's mouth with his own, forcing his tongue past those so-soft lips. He dared not taste him deeper, though he wished to do so more than he could express. It was obvious that his young lover was not ready for that yet, and he had no desire to lose part of his tongue to those sharp white teeth.

Soft words were coming from Erestor's mouth, quiet pleading and begging. Herenecco ignored the words. He was sure that Erestor could not mean them, that he was only afraid of surrendering his pride, his control. Any moment those words would change from no to yes, from stop to more. He had never known a lover to leave his company unsatisfied, and he resolved that Erestor would not be the first.

Hungry for a taste, he buried his face in the crook of Erestor's neck. The smell of his sweat and fear was intoxicating, and Herenecco could not resist feeling that delicious skin between his teeth. A ragged growl slipped from the beautiful one's lips, and it did not matter in that moment if it was from pleasure or pain or anger. _All will be well, _Herenecco thought at that growl. _He will see how good this can be. He will know that only I could have done this for him._

He sat up and took in the beauty of his conquest again, then leaned forward to place a chaste kiss to the damp forehead. As he bowed low, he saw a spark of focus in those ebony eyes, and Erestor's head shot forward faster than he had thought possible. Lightening flashed across his vision as his nose was broken, and he was blind with pain for a heartbeat. His captive redoubled his efforts to escape, freeing his hands while Herenecco was distracted by the blood running down his chin.

In that moment it all came clear. It was ruined. Erestor would never love him, would never be his. He had done everything right, and this stupid stubborn elf had ruined it all. Fury filled him, but arousal too. He had been wronged, and he would have satisfaction, one way or another.

"Damn you!" he hissed, and the back of his hand cracked across the younger elf's face. Blood blossomed at the corner of his mouth and underneath his nose, and Herenecco was encouraged by the symmetry of it; blood for blood, pain for pain. He fought with the thick fabric of the formal robes that covered his prize.

Erestor lay stunned and still, though his protests continued. "Please," he whimpered, "Please, I do not want this..."

------------

Glorfindel stepped from the hidden entrance behind the rose trellis, and with the first breath of the cool night air he knew that something was amiss. He stood frozen a moment, breathing in the blossom-scented air, listening to the soft chirps of night-singing birds. All was calm, still, peaceful, and yet he could not escape the feeling of unease. A frown marred his smooth brow, and using all of the stealth he had perfected in the centuries since his rebirth, he moved out into the gardens, searching for the source.

Leaves rustled in the breeze. An owl called overhead. The sounds of a faint conversation came to his ears. He followed the distant voices towards a small alcove where an elf could sit and meditate in the quiet of the garden or a couple could enjoy a private tryst.

"Please...Herenecco..." the voice was a soft moan, and Glorfindel almost stepped away.

He had heard similar pleas in his days in Gondolin, after all. _"Glorfindel, please don't tease me_," and _"Please, touch me, let me touch you..."_ These words were almost an echo of those long-ago whispers. He turned to walk by, to leave the couple to their privacy, but some feeling of wrongness, some instinct, forced him to pause. He was frozen just long enough to recognize one of the voices, the one that was pleading so softly, as Erestor's.

Glorfindel had both hoped for and dreaded this; that Erestor would find someone to be happy with, to share his solitary nights with. He had known since he first chose to hide his face in Imladris that it could not be him, but still some stubborn hope lingered. Now the daydream was over. He resolved to walk past, to spend his evening as he had planned. He would go on to the dining hall, leaving the happy couple to their pleasures. Moving one foot after the other, he skirted around the trysting spot.

It was the tone of Erestor's voice, and not his words that broke through Glorfindel's uncertainty. When he was close enough to hear that there was no delicious tension in that voice, that the desperate pleas were not a reaction to a delightful denial, he broke into a run. The sharp sound of a slap echoed through the gardens and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

In the alcove, one dark-haired elf crouched above another. Glorfindel recognized the shoulders and body-language of Herenecco, captain of Imladris' guards. Nothing mattered in that moment except for protecting Erestor, keeping this mad elf from harming him. Glorfindel did not think of his secrecy or his vanity. He feared neither blade nor authority. He grabbed Herenecco by the shoulder and spun him away from the form that writhed with weak movements on the ground.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Glorfindel's eyes seized the image there on the ground before him. The colors of the world became reduced to the white of Erestor's skin, the black of his hair and eyes, and the red of the blood on his face, in the bite marks on his neck and the angry scratches on the center of his chest. In the span of that same heartbeat, the red seemed to become a film over Glorfindel's vision, shading all that he saw with Erestor's pain.

He heard a crack, and his eyes met Herenecco's as the spruce-green ones lost their focus. The guard captain began to fall, and a sharp, belated pain flared up from Glorfindel's fist. He watched him hit the ground and realized he had struck the elf with all of his strength.

For a moment all was still in the gardens. Herenecco lay unmoving on the alcove's cobbled floor, his head at an unnatural angle. Only the slow rise and fall of his chest showed that Glorfindel had not broken his neck with the force of that blow. Erestor was trying with weak motions to push himself away from the guard captain's still form, tangling himself in the remains of his formal robe. The younger elf's helplessness worried him and he crouched beside him, searching for the harm done to him. An odd scent lingered on Erestor's breath; wine but something else also.

The damage to the fair face made him ill to look upon. More than that, he doubted it was only wine that had muddled the elf's graceful movements and clear thoughts. To see one so strong, so proud brought to helpless whimpering was almost obscene in his eyes. He would have given his left hand to undo the last night of Erestor's life.

"Please..." Erestor whispered, and Glorfindel thought that he had been mistaken for the guard captain. Pale fingers clutched at the hem of his cloak and he realized this was not the way of it. It could not be the guard captain that Erestor saw in his haze, but another.

"Please," the soft entreaty was repeated. "Please don't leave me again..."


	9. His lost one

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 9/??

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: PG-13 (may change for later chapters)

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence, AU

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

Author's Note: A huge Thank-you to Nienna for helping this piece be as canon as possible, and for helping me to bring my writing to a higher level.

* * *

He was safe. There was no fear, no uncertainty. The arms that carried him down dark and winding paths were warm, and strong, and he trusted them without hesitation. His cheek rested against a muscular shoulder, and he breathed in the scent of his savior's hair; like earth and spices, like the forest and sunshine.

Erestor could not remember the last time someone had carried him, but he found an unexpected comfort in the action. He felt so cherished, so secure as he was taken down unseen hallways and up stairs so narrow that he was carried sideways and still the sleeve of his robe brushed the walls.

He had spent the last of his energy convincing the elf who now carried him to not leave and now he was content to be taken to whatever destination the other had in mind.

_"I cannot stay," the warrior had told him, and he had known that voice. The accent could not have been mistaken, not by one who had relived every word of their previous conversations so many times in his mind. He had gripped even tighter on the worn hem of the guardian's cloak. All his skills at debate had fled with his strength, and it was a struggle to raise his head. _

_"Do not leave me." He was not above begging, and Varyar had hesitated. "Please do not leave me again." He felt tears of frustration stinging his eyes. Herenecco's attack had not reduced him to weeping, but the thought of being left again, abandoned again, was more than he could bear. _

_He heard a soft sigh, and it was becoming so difficult to focus his mind or his eyes. _

_"So be it." Varyar's voice had been resigned, which Erestor did not understand, but then he was being helped to sit. An arm went behind his knees, and he found himself lifted above the ground and held against the lean strength of the warrior's chest. _

There was the click of a door being opened, and he could sense that they had moved into another room. With care, he was lowered onto soft, smooth bed covers. Varyar stepped away and lit a candle. Erestor winced at the sudden flare of color and blinked around at the walls and furnishings of his own room.

* * *

Glorfindel eased Erestor down to the elf's own sheets and then pried the slender fingers from the grip they held on his tunic. His arms ached for the weight they no longer held. His shoulder already felt cold where the warm body had been pressed against it. In the time it had taken to bring him here Glorfindel had become accustomed to the sheet of hair, cool and straight-falling as rain over his arm. The whisper of breath against his jaw seemed as natural to him as his own heartbeat.

A feeling of dread crept over him as he stepped away to fetch a candle, and he returned with haste. He knew he could not stay past the rising of dawn, and he knew that leave-taking would cause him more pain than the knuckles he had bruised or broken when he struck the guard captain, more than sword, spear or balrog's whip ever had.

And so he was in no hurry as he brushed midnight hair back from that pale fair face and raised the candle so that he could better see to the young elf's wounds. Despite the blood, he did not seem badly hurt, though the lack of coordination in his movements was a worry. Even as Glorfindel brushed the pad of his thumb over the bruise at Erestor's mouth, the dark-haired one smiled a vague and dazed smile at him. The effect was ghastly. Blood tinged the white teeth pink. Beyond reason, he found himself smiling in return. A chuckle made its way from his throat, the first he could remember since his rebirth.

"Ai, Erestor, you are a mess." Forcing himself to look away from those dark eyes, he went to the small cabinet near the fireplace and returned with a teacup half-full with water and one that was empty carried in one hand.

When he had first explored this room, he had expected it to be given to an elf of some rank, and not a secretary, even Elrond's secretary. The room was beautiful, though it made Erestor's humble furnishings seem simpler by comparison. The back wall, the one with the hidden door in it, was paneled in clear golden oak, a fireplace set in the center with white stone; the obvious door near the end. The other wall was a sweeping curve of arched openings, the spaces in between so narrow they were more columns than wall. He had been surprised when it was assigned to Erestor, but only for a brief time. If he was lord of Imladris, as he had been lord of the house of the golden flower, he would have done the same. Erestor would not be a secretary for long, and there was no sense in rearranging things when he was promoted in a few hundred years.

It felt strange to him as he helped Erestor to sit up again and leaned the near-limp body against his own shoulder. He had never imagined himself as a healer. Tending an illness, even that brought by too much wine, was a new experience for him. He pressed the full glass to pale lips. Three times he helped Erestor to rinse and then spit into the empty cup. Each time the water was a little clearer. When he was satisfied he lay the dark head back down on the pillows.

Through all, he was sure to keep the smoother side of his face towards the light, and the hood of his cloak up to further hide his features. _'Tis not vanity,_ he told himself, _but survival instead._ He had no doubt that he would fade should Erestor pull from him in horror and disgust, and his duty again be left undone.

Dark lashes fluttered over dark eyes and Glorfindel frowned. Surely the injury was not so bad that it forced Erestor into a healing sleep? He went to get the basin, pitcher and cloth from the washstand. The crooked smile returned to the dark-haired elf's lips as Glorfindel began to clean the blood from his face.

"Thank you," Erestor whispered as slow gentle swipes with the cloth removed the darkness from his skin. "For returning to me. For staying." Moving his hand seemed to take great effort, but he managed to raise it to grasp the tip of Glorfindel's golden braid, which he held onto as if it meant his life.

_Who does he see? _Glorfindel wondered as he stared down into the dark eyes. He remembered the sight of the young elf kneeling on the battlefield next to a golden-haired corpse. _Does he think I am his lost one?_

"It was nothing," he murmured, moving the cool cloth over the angry red scratches on the lean, strong chest. Erestor hissed through his teeth and clutched at the sheets with his free hand. Glorfindel winced.

"Have I hurt you?" The dark head shook a no. Glorfindel frowned. "Are you frightened? I should go..." Again Erestor shook his head no. A warm blush colored his pale cheeks, and dark eyes turned aside.

Glorfindel swallowed hard, and felt warmth rise on his own cheeks, flaring like the heat of a lightening strike on the scarred side of his face. "Erestor," his voice was firm but gentle, "It is only the wine. There is no shame..."

Erestor nodded, but still would not meet his eyes in the dim candlelight. Glorfindel finished soothing the scratches to his satisfaction, trying with all of his willpower to ignore the younger elf's reactions to the soft touches. When he was done, he pulled away, untangling his braid from the slim, pale fingers.

He helped Erestor out of his torn robes and into a soft nightshirt that was open down the front. He felt as if he was moving in a dream, that if he focused on the sensation of soft skin beneath his fingertips he would awake and it would all slip away from him.

When Erestor said he felt he might be sick, Glorfindel helped him onto his side and emptied the basin of water and set it nearby should he need to use it. His knuckles were beginning to swell as he combed out the tangles in the soft dark hair and braided it back as neat as he could.

He kept the younger elf awake for long hours, asking him about the books he had read and the places he had been in his life. He was careful to not ask any question that would tempt Erestor into betraying his lord or his household's secrets. If Erestor remembered any of this come morning, he wanted to be sure he was not thought of as a spy.

Dawn had not yet broken over the horizon when Erestor dropped into peaceful reverie, his dark gaze soft and unfocused. Glorfindel cleaned up what small mess he had made, folding away the torn robe. He knew that he was lingering without cause, and at last he forced himself to the hidden passageway and out.

The closing of the door behind him was the most final sound he had heard in either lifetime.


	10. Heart's Fire

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 10/??

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: PG-13 (may change for later chapters)

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence, AU

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

Author's Note: A huge Thank-you to Nienna for helping this piece be as canon as possible, and for helping me to bring my writing to a higher level.

* * *

Elrond pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. The sun was just now rising and already this day was not on his list of favorites. To be awoken before dawn with news that his captain of the guard had been found in the gardens with his nose and jaw broken and a feeling of dread settling like a stone in his stomach was not a pleasant way to begin the day.

He sighed and straightened Herenecco's clothing where it was stacked and looked down at the elf. Both eyes were black from the broken nose, and his jaw a sickly purple color. The bone had started to mend before he was found, and Elrond had been forced to re-break it in order for it to be set properly.

A muffled clink sounded from the cloth Elrond was folding, and he looked down in time to see a small clay bottle hit the floor and break in two. He sighed with regret for Herenecco's possession and reached to pick it up. When he did, he frowned with puzzlement. Human made, he could see that from the bottle. He tipped it up and a tiny bit of white powder slid out. _A potion or healing powder?_ He tried to think what an elf, one of his guards, could need with a human concoction when he had the healing houses of Imladris to provide for his needs.

Frowning, he glanced at the still-unconscious guard, then moistened the tip of his finger and tasted the bottle's contents. It took a moment to realize what it was, and when he did, he spit it from himself and wiped his tongue on his sleeve. Fury burned in his chest, but did not displace the feeling of ill-ease that had plagued him since he woke.

"My lord?" one of the other healers asked as he strode to Herenecco's bedside and shook him awake, her voice sharp with surprise. Never in the healing house had they seen their lord so angry at a patient.

"Is this yours?" Elrond demanded as the spruce-green eyes tried to focus on the item in his hands. Herenecco blinked, swallowed, looked up at his lord, and nodded.

Grey eyes flashed with anger as Elrond took a breath to steady himself. "Have you given Heart's Fire to an elf?" His words were clipped, and evenly spaced. He resisted the urge to throw something or someone. An elf, drugged with Heart's Fire, could die if allowed to sleep. Somewhere in Imladris an elf was dying.

The captain of the guard had the decency to look ashamed of himself as he closed his eyes and nodded again.

Elrond ground his teeth together. "Who?" he demanded, though with his broken jaw there was no way for Herenecco to answer. A flash of memory came to him from the night before; Elladan speaking with the guardian, smiling, walking from the dining hall with him. "Did you give this to my son?" Fear that only a parent can know stabbed at him, even when the injured elf shook his head a vehement no.

"Father?" He turned, and there stood his children, his beautiful sons. Elladan's eyes glanced at the captain, uncertainty in their depths. "What has happened? Is Herenecco well? And Erestor?"

"Erestor?" Grey eyes flashed with new anger.

Elladan nodded and took a step back. "We were to have sword lessons this morning at dawn and he was not at the field when I arrived. I was worried because he was late, and he's never late." The older twin hesitated. "I was with Herenecco in the gardens when Erestor came by to remind me last night. It looked like he might stay."

Elrond groaned. "You two, check the study, the library, any place that you can think Erestor may have gone if he was hurt or afraid. I'll check his chambers. If you find him, one of you try to wake him while the other comes back to find me. Do you understand?"

Two dark heads nodded their understanding, and then they sprinted off with all the energy of youth and the urgency of those unused to fear.

Elrond broke into a run in the opposite direction, to Mandos with lordly dignity. _Has he met his end under my command at last?_

------

He ran. Not the ground-eating strides that an elf could maintain for days, but the all-out frantic pace of one fleeing a source of pain too great to be borne. He was like a ghost-wind through the forest, moving at great speed yet leaving no sign of his passing. He pushed himself to the threshold of what his body could stand and beyond. The air in his lungs was afire; a white ache was building behind his eyes.

And he welcomed it; the burn, the pain. Anything to distract him from the memory of that taste of what he could never have, did not deserve. He was cut soul-deep by bitter longing.

His next step met empty air, and for half a heartbeat it was as if the Balrog was pulling him down again; he was falling. Then the rocky bed of the small stream that had cut the gully through the forest was rising up to meet him and he fell hard upon it. He rolled to his knees, less hurt than startled. The trance he had put himself into during the run was broken however, and all of his despair came rushing back to him.

He wrapped his arms around himself and screamed into the dawn. He howled like a wild thing, frightening birds to flight and small animals to flee. He cried until he had no voice left and no strength. He fell into the shallow waters, and even their smooth caress reminded him of his love's dark hair running over his fingers.

"Erestor..." he whispered the name like a prayer. "Erestor..."

-----------

"Erestor!" Someone was calling his name. The sound of a fist banging on his door pulled him the last bit away from the soft comfortable dreams he had been nestled in; dreams of gentle touches and loving words.

He opened his eyes as Elrond burst uninvited into his rooms, his eyes more intense than Erestor had seen since the war. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, feeling somehow weak and drained. The brightness of the room told him dawn had come, and he bit back a groan as he remembered that he had sword lessons with Elladan this day. How was he ever to teach the youngsters the value of punctuality when he himself could not arrive on time?

And then Elrond was steadying him, half-kicking away the porcelain basin by his feet. His chin was tipped back, his face turned towards the sun's thin rays.

"Are you well?" The elf-lord asked him, searching his face as if for some clue, some answer. Elrond's eyes fell to the still-red scratches down his chest, and a feeling of shame crept over him, though he could not have said why.

The younger elf nodded and pulled his head away from the strong fingers of his lord. "Aye, I am sorry that I was late. It will not happen again." He could not make sense of it; the concern, almost fear on his friend's face. He pulled his shirt closed; only now realizing it was not the one he remembered wearing the day before.

Elrond caught Erestor's hands in his and ran his thumbs over the flawless knuckles.

"Erestor, I need you to tell me about last night. Someone broke Herenecco's jaw, and it was not you." Elrond's voice was gentle yet strong. In this moment he was friend, father-figure and lord of the valley.

"I..." Erestor could not meet the earnest grey eyes. "You will think me mad, a drunkard or a liar." Images of the night before teased at his mind, small glimpses that refused to order themselves into a coherent story.

His lord's smile was sad. "I had thought we knew each other better than that, Erestor." And the younger elf was forced to concede that yes, they did, and so he began his story.

It was past noon when a very troubled Elrond left Erestor's room, leaving the left Erestor's room, telling him take a few days of rest before reporting for his duties again.

"And if there is anything you are in need of, please do not hesitate to ask for me," he concluded.

"Of course," Erestor assured him. "And Elrond?" The lord of Imladris hesitated in the doorway, "Thank you for all you have done for me."


	11. Found

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 11/?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email:

Rating: R

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

* * *

Elrond rested his head in his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs. Except for the guards still searching for Herenecco's attacker, Imladris was quiet. To his misfortune, the valley's lord had no such ease. His worries were many. Herenecco had to be relieved of duty. That was evident. Even without Erestor's muddled recollections of the night before, the elf had admitted to attempting seduction through such vile trickery that it was only another facet of violation.

Herenecco had failed and it was attributed to an apparition that Erestor could not or would not describe to him, a fact he found almost as worrying. Despite his youth, Elrond's secretary, friend and tutor to his children had always seemed the most stable of elves. A wisdom and strength beyond his years stared back from those dark eyes, and Elrond had considered adding him to his circle of counselors soon after the twins passed their majority. He had assigned the younger elf to take a few days of rest. He hoped that by the end of those days they would talk again and Erestor would be able to put into words all that he could remember of his rescuer. If it was revealed as a friend he would welcome it into his home, but if it was some form of dark trickery it must be dealt with in a swift and final manner.

----------------

The secret door opened without a sound, and Erestor felt himself shiver. He had been right when he remembered the figure of his rescuer disappearing on this side of his room. The tiniest glint of gold caught his eyes and he reached out, taking a single strand of hair from where it had caught on a rough patch on the doorframe. He grinned. He wasn't mad. He could show this to Elrond, he had his proof. Even this small evidence restored his confidence.

He paused on the threshold between the light room and the dark passage and tried to think if there was anything else he could need here, and could find nothing lacking. He had spent all of a day researching the architecture of Imladris, poring over floor plans and blueprints and the original land surveys. He had known the passages existed of course. He had helped to build them, in those early days. One just tends to not dwell on things that have had no importance in the previous century or two.

He had spent the first half of this morning studying all of his notes, all of his theories, everything he had regarding the apparition that had saved him from Herenecco. The apparition that he was beginning to suspect was no more spirit than he himself was. In the first untouched page of his journal he had documented his plans for this day, should some misfortune befall him. He had only his own drugged recollections of gentle words, soothing touches to rest his faith in, he knew. What if he had been wrong, what if there was more than one unknown thing behind the walls of Imladris?

Determined not to dwell on the dark possibilities, he set his jaw and lit his lantern. Its light seemed thin and small in the darkness, though he knew it would be sufficient assistance for elven sight. He checked the dagger at his hip, remembering his father's words of wisdom. "One should not hunt deer without being prepared to meet the wolf." He had made it his life's habit to be prepared for whatever may come and this enterprise was no exception.

His first step was certain, and he closed the door behind him. He moved with growing confidence down the narrow corridor, admiring the workmanship and quality that went into even such a seldom-seen part of the keep. Dark eyes searched by the light of his tiny flame for some clue, some guide.

By and by the smooth elf-crafted floors gave way to ones of rougher stone, navigable but requiring more of his attention. He placed his feet with care, and he memorized each turn that he made, each branching of the way. The original surveys showed very little of the natural caves beyond those needed as potential escape routes. If he became lost he would have only his wits to save him.

Another turn, and he was off of the maps that he had memorized. He chose a direction at random, and felt the ground slope down and the passage wound its way through natural stone.

_Chalk,_ he thought as he fought the instinct to go back to daylight, to explore all of those known paths before he went so deep. _Next time I shall bring chalk, and leave marks to find my way by, should I become lost._ But he knew he would not, that if he did not find his apparition this trip he would come again, and it would be best if his quarry was unwarned.

Loose gravel shifted under his feet and he slid a short distance. The flickering flame of his lantern sent a tug of fear through his stomach as he tried to think how he would survive should it go out. He held still as a statue for long moments, catching his breath and watching the now-steady light.

The tunnel turned to the left then back to the right, and then opened without warning into a broader area, and he grinned and knew he had found the lair of the apparition, and that the apparition was, in fact, a living creature. He moved across the floor, noting that it was covered with a thick layer of sand, and raised his lantern above his head to spread light around the room.

The lair was perhaps ten paces wide in either direction, with the narrow tunnel entering on one side and exiting on the other. Looking down at the sand, he peered close before he disturbed the center and saw there footprints as slender as his own. Elation caused his heart to pound in his chest. _Elf. I am sure of it._

The melted stumps of candles circled the room, stuck on small outcroppings on the rough walls and sunk into the sandy floor around the perimeter. _As if lighting..._he turned a slow circle, _a performance area, or...sparring circle._ Against one wall was a tiny hearth of unset stones. He lowered his hand and felt the slight warmth still radiating from the stones. A bucket of clear-seeming water stood beside the store of unburned logs, accompanied by a dented pan and a chipped teacup. He followed the smoke stain on the wall with his eyes but it went up further than the light from his lantern.

In an alcove to the side he spotted a bit of color. Upon closer inspection it was revealed to be a bed of sorts, a thick pile of hay covered over by a threadbare rug and a mound of old rags. The cloth was stained, worn, still there was no scent of decay or filth here. Everything here was as clean as its counterpart in Erestor's own room, discounting the sand.

The whisper of movement was the only warning he had, and he spun to find a hooded figure close, too close. Before he could guard it, before he could even focus on the shape before him, his lantern's flame was snuffed out and utter darkness surrounded him.

Silence. He held his breath, afraid to make the slightest sound. If he could not feel the other there in the cave with him he would have sworn he was alone. He felt dizzy, foolish. A dozen smarter ways to have done this sprang to his mind in silent reprimand. He turned his head, searching for some idea where his company had gone. Long moments passed and nothing changed.

Gathering his courage he reached out a hand to search for the way out. Strong fingers caught his wrist, tightening to a grip just short of painful. He flinched, face twisting with fear and discomfort, but he did not gasp or cry out. He could feel the other person tremble in the dark.

"What..." the voice in the darkness began. It was thick and gravelly, colored with the Quenya accent and heavy with what sounded like pain. "What ill have I committed that you would do this to me?"


	12. Want

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 12?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email: R

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

* * *

He blew out the small lantern without thinking. The fear of being seen, being known, overrode conscious thought. Erestor reached out towards him, fingers searching but not finding. Glorfindel realized that while Erestor had been using the tiny fire to see by, he himself had shielded his eyes from its glare. While the light of their elven glow was enough for him, the younger elf was blind in the darkness.

"What..." Erestor was here, in the one place he never wanted anyone to be, much less an elf so pure, so good, so...of the light. The wrongness of it twisted in his gut. "What ill have I committed that you would do this to me" They were not the words he had intended to say, but if the sound of accusation in his voice would chase Erestor back to the sun, so much the better.

He realized that he had caught the dark-haired elf's wrist, in a grip that could not be comfortable. With a shiver, he released his hand.

"No, please..." Distress colored the young elf's protest. "You've done no wrong. I only came to thank you... For what you did for me in the garden... And centuries ago, on the field of battle." Erestor hesitated. "It was you, was it not? Varyar" Glorfindel knew he should say something at this point, deny that identity. Too long had passed though, since he had conversed with another, and he could not find the appropriate words.

"I want to repay you." Erestor's voice was uncertain and all Glorfindel wanted to do was to dispel that uncertainty.

"No, that is not necessary." He was aware of his voice, his accent, how archaic he sounded. "You are welcome. It was...no trouble."

Erestor smiled, and even in the dim lighting it warmed Glorfindel to see it. "You saved my life." His voice had the tone of a formal negotiation, though the smile stayed on his lips. "I am in your debt and will be unable to rest until it is repaid." He squinted towards Glorfindel, and the scarred elf knew that his eyes were adjusting. Soon they would see each other equally well in the darkness.

Glorfindel began to pace, his steps trapped by the smallness of the room. "Repay me by leaving; tell none that I am here."

A flicker of regret passed over Erestor's fair features. "I must tell my lord. I am bound by my honor to do this. No other will hear of you from my lips. I swear it."

Glorfindel felt like sighing. "I understand. Forgive me for asking such a thing."

"There must be something I _can_ do" Erestor continued. "Something that you want that is in my power to grant you."

_Want..._ it had been so long since Glorfindel had allowed himself to want. The question lingered in the air and he could not answer it. He did not deserve to have the thing he most desired. "I..." It was overwhelming, this fair elf's offer. "I have all that I need."

"And there is nothing else in all the world that you would have"

_I would have you._ The words fought his throat, trying to escape, trying to be spoken. To keep them safe inside, he spoke the first thought that came to him. "I would like to eat a good meal." It had been so long, and there were so many things that he barely remembered the taste of that he couldn't be more specific. He would have to trust that Erestor would choose well for him.

The dark elf's voice became tight; whether in real or feigned offence, Glorfindel couldn't tell. "A meal. In repayment for you saving me on that last bloody day of the battle? Is my life worth so little"

Glorfindel was forced to admit that no; it was worth so much more. The debate began, as Erestor tried to give as much as possible and Glorfindel tried to accept as little as possible. They were both stubborn elves. After much discussion, they agreed to one meal, every day for a year, discounting those times when duty would disallow such a thing. Erestor still protested that his life was worth more. Glorfindel still insisted that his actions were worth less, but it was as close as they could come to a fair solution, and they both accepted it.

Glorfindel felt that somehow he had made a poor bargain. He knew he wasn't a stupid elf, but the way Erestor used logic, emotion and honor was just unfair. He found himself agreeing to facts, then annoyed at where those facts led the conversation. He was reaching the conclusion that perhaps haggling was a skill that one should practice often or use not at all, when Erestor spoke again.

"And at the end of that year, we can decide what it is you will accept in repayment for the other times you have saved my life." Glorfindel stopped pacing, staring at the serene form in the darkness. He was beginning to distrust all words that the younger elf spoke.

"Other times? What trick is this" He _knew_ he wasn't a stupid elf, and his patience for debate was at an end.

He expected the flicker of humor to return to Erestor's voice, but instead it was soft and serious. "He would have violated me" the darkling elf whispered. Glorfindel remembered the scene as he had found it, and knew Erestor spoke the truth. "He would have violated me, and I would have faded from the grief of it. You saved my life as surely as if he had a blade to my throat."

Glorfindel stood more still than an elf made of marble. These words he could not dispute.

"But that will be a discussion for another day, a year from tomorrow, yes" His tone was lighter, if only by a bit, and Glorfindel found himself smiling and nodding before he could stop himself.

"Yes...I mean no. You said times." He tried to project a hint of warning into his voice, but knew he only sounded petulant.

"You kept me awake. I remember talking to you until the eastern sky began to warm. Without you, Herenecco's potion would have killed me. If I had slept, I never would have awakened."

The hooded elf hung his head, fighting the unexpected rush of anger. He understood now, Erestor's drunken mumblings and disjointed movements of that night. What he had assumed was a spontaneous overstepping of boundaries on Herenecco's part suddenly became premeditated assault in his eyes. "He will be punished" Only an act of will kept his voice steady.

There was a moment of silence. "He acknowledges giving me the human's potion." A pause stretched between them as Erestor took a breath. "Even I do not believe he meant to poison me to death. Beyond that, he has claimed no wrongdoing, and my testimony is sketchy at best. What I felt and believed, and the facts that I can remember are two different things."

Glorfindel could hear the stress in the younger elf's voice. His own chest ached with sympathy for the fear and pain the other must be feeling. "You saw part of what transpired, did you not? Did I..." Erestor's voice had fallen to a whisper. "Did I tell him no" His arms were wrapped around himself, his hands gripping the opposite elbows. His head was unbowed, however. He stood almost at attention, as if waiting for this creature of the shadows to pronounce judgment upon him.

"You told him no." Glorfindel pitched his voice to leave no room for doubt. "You told him, you begged him, and you broke his nose. I can think of no clearer way that you may have expressed your desires." He yearned to step forward, to offer the younger elf the comfort of his arms but he resisted, waiting for some sign that comforting was needed.

Erestor made a startled little noise at Glorfindel's pronouncement. "_I_ broke his nose? I thought..." he chuckled, in what sounded like pride and amazement. "I thought you broke it."

Glorfindel felt himself grinning in the darkness. "Nay, he was bloodied before I touched him. If not for the potion he gave you, I have no doubt that you would have been safe without my help."

"I'm glad you were there." Something that Glorfindel couldn't place lingered in the dark-haired elf's voice. He felt uncomfortable, unsure.

"Come" he spoke into the lengthening silence. He held out his hand, and Erestor's slender fingers took it. "I will lead you back to your rooms."

They traveled the rest of the way in silence, except for planning where they would meet in the passageways for the first dinner. Glorfindel saw Erestor safely to where the rough darkness of the hidden corridors met the oak-paneled lightness of the fair elf's chambers. He would go no further. He would not allow the light there to touch him.

"Until tomorrow, Erestor" he murmured, feeling like an elf in a play, speaking lines that could not be the truth. He made a short formal bow, keeping his face, his shame, his pride, hidden in the hood.

"Until tomorrow." Erestor replied, as the soft glow of moonlight leant a silver shimmer to the sweep of his hair.

Glorfindel closed the passageway door and his smile tightened to a feral grimace. Silent as a wind, he moved through the darkness to the library for pen and parchment, then to the healing house. There was an elf there that he needed to have a discussion with; a discussion regarding truth and lies and the number of other bones that could be broken should the two remain muddled in his testimony.


	13. Testimony

Herenecco's room in the healing house was silent except for the scratch of pen upon parchment. A dark figure stood at the foot of his bed with his arms crossed over his chest, watching as the guardian wrote. Blue eyes, cold as winter's chill, stared down at him from the shadows beneath his hood.

_"You will write an accurate and complete account of the night you hurt Erestor." The...creature had told him, waking him in the middle of the night with a blade to his throat. His! Captain of the guard of Imladris. It had been unthinkable, and he had protested the indignity. To his misfortune, his jaw was still mending, and one of the healers had immobilized it with an arrangement of leather straps around his head. He doubted he could even shout in this condition. _

_"You will write an accurate and complete account of the night you hurt Erestor, or I will begin to break the rest of your bones until you comply or until the healer comes to check on you at dawn." He had never heard a more convincing threat. There was no mercy in that rough voice, no pity, no softness._

And so Herenecco wrote, sitting in his sick-bed with a monster standing guard over him.

-

* * *

Glorfindel watched as the elf who had hurt Erestor wrote out his confession. He watched the flickers of expression pass over the bruised features. He watched where the quill moved sure and brisk over the paper, and where it lingered for long moments between words.

He had not led his household in Gondolin without learning to recognize dishonesty when he saw it. He mastered his temper, and held his hand out for the sheet.

Herenecco stared up at him, confused, but passed the confession over.

Glorfindel looked the writing over, and was glad for the hood that shadowed his face. The words, the letters, they made no sense. With effort, with time, he thought he might be able to decipher a few lines. For the first time he wondered how many years had passed while he dwelt in Mandos' halls.

He would be damned if he would show weakness in front of this villain. "This is the truth?" He asked, letting every bit of his incredulity show in his voice. He pointed to a random place on the page, then another faster than Herenecco could focus on the first. "And here? And here?" Spruce-green eyes went wide with fear. With quick motions he tore the paper to bits.

"Again." He passed the dark-haired elf a new page.

In the end, it took three drafts before Glorfindel was satisfied with the integrity of the report. "This is the truth?" He asked one last time and Herenecco nodded, desperate. "You will sign it and I will see that it ends in the appropriate hands."

Laying that piece of paper on Elrond's desk gave him a sense of satisfaction that few other accomplishments had.

-

* * *

The door to Elrond's office was ajar, an open invitation for Erestor to enter, and yet he hesitated. A messenger had met him on the way here, telling him that his lord wished to speak with him. That Elrond would have summoned him on this last day of his assigned rest worried him.

With a last nervous gesture he straightened his robes and stepped inside. "My lord?" His tone was formal but still warm, as he tried to discover if he addressed his lord or his friend. Elrond looked up from his desk, a slight line of worry between his brows, though a gentle smile formed on his lips as Erestor entered. "I was told to see you," the secretary continued, "and I have a report to make as well."

Elrond gestured and Erestor took a seat. "In that case, I will let you begin," the lord of Imladris spoke.

And so Erestor recounted the events of the previous evening, from the records he had found of the tunnels, through his journey into the unlit places, to his meeting with Varyar and the debate over repayment for the life-debt. The one thing he found himself not speaking of was the information Varyar told him about the night he was saved from Herenecco's treachery.

The thoughtful frown was even deeper on Elrond's brow as the story was finished, and he was silent for long moments. Erestor waited, composed, for the inevitable questions.

"What is his purpose here?" Elrond asked, his grey eyes distant, contemplative.

Erestor shrugged. "I know not, although I do believe he is the apparition that has graced Imladris all these years with his help and protection."

"Why would he choose to hide himself in the darkness when all the comforts of our city would be his for the asking?"

Erestor resisted the urge to bite his lower lip. He felt as if he was betraying a trust, and yet he could not lie to his lord, or withhold information that may be necessary for the protection of his home. "He seemed...beyond shy. Afraid. He seemed afraid. I know not why."

Again Elrond was silent before he spoke. "Erestor, you are an elf of no small wisdom. Do you trust this elf? Is he good? Honest? Will he bring harm to those who have come here seeking protection?"

Erestor knew he looked like an elfling with a crush as he leaned forward in his seat. "I trust him, Elrond. He has saved my life with no hope of reward. He has forsaken his own comfort, and taken nothing that he did not need to survive. He understands my sense of duty and would not ask me to forsake it, even at the price of his secrecy. Please..." he realized he was begging, "Please let me be the one to reach out to him, to find out why he hides and why he helps."

Grey eyes regarded him for long moments, searching his own dark ones for something that none save Elrond knew. With a curt nod, his lord broke the stare. "Very well. I make him your responsibility, your charge. Befriend him, care for him, and learn what you may. I will increase your stipend to cover for his expenses. Report to me should your opinion of his character change."

Erestor blinked for a moment, his usual eloquence lost. This was far more than he had hoped for. "Thank you, Elrond." He bowed as his lord gestured him up and towards the door.

"You're welcome," the grey-eyed elf replied, then hesitated. "Be careful, Erestor. Secretaries of your talents are hard to come by." While the words were teasing, the tone was not, and Erestor felt more serious as he left Elrond's office.

He was halfway down the hall before he realized that whatever Elrond had summoned him for had not been addressed.

Or perhaps it had.


	14. A simple thing

_Late Echuir (March) _

Glorfindel moved with self-imposed wariness to the open chamber where he had asked Erestor to meet him. It was closer to the other elf's chambers than Glorfindel's own space was, and adequate for their needs this eve.

The small glow of a lantern's flame drew him forward out of the shadows. Relief washed over him and he realized that he had been afraid Erestor would not come, despite his promises.

Erestor had come, and some time before the appointed hour, it seemed. A blanket was spread, as if this was a picnic in a sunlit clearing and not a stone-floored pocket in a dark cavern. Two tiny lanterns lit the plates, hooded so that their glow spilled down to the food and not up at their faces. Fine dishes were laid out in a way that was as appealing to the eye as the sumptuous scents that came from them were to the nose.

All these things he noticed, but they were small, unimportant, next to what he felt when Erestor's dark eyes sought him out in the dim light. His heart fluttered. His mouth went dry. Erestor was a portrait of simplicity and beauty. Dark hair was pulled back into a single long braid; his lithe torso was wrapped in a shirt of ivory linen, his long legs covered by black wool leggings.

Glorfindel felt shabby by comparison, tattered and worn, unworthy of this elf's presence or his gifts.

"You came," Erestor's words brought a flush to his face for how close they mirrored his own thoughts.

"Aye. You also." He sat down cross-legged on the blanket across from the dark-haired elf. Erestor laughed, soft and pure.

"Of course I came. I would be a fool to argue so yesterday and then not appear today." The lanterns gave just enough light for Glorfindel to see the dark eyes glance down at the assembled plates. "I was not sure what you would enjoy, so I chose a small portion of many things." He hesitated as if not wanting to offend. "I was also not sure what you have been eating, and I did not want to bring you anything so rich that it would upset your digestion."

A smile played at Glorfindel's lips. "I am grateful for that. You are trained as a healer?" He cleansed his fingertips in the small bowl of mint water brought for that purpose, precise in motions he had preformed at every meal for his entire stay in Gondolin.

Erestor shook his head. "No more than any other soldier. I just remember our first night here in Imladris, after the war. The march had been long, and rations small for many weeks. There was a feast to welcome Elrond home, and I made myself sick celebrating." He passed Glorfindel a miniature towel and the hooded elf nodded his thanks before drying his hands.

Erestor watched him, he watched Erestor. After long moments the younger elf smiled. "Are you not hungry?" His voice was gentle, entreating.

Glorfindel realized that he had been waiting for his "guest" to begin first, and Erestor had been thinking of himself as host as well.

"Of course..." with the manners of the lord he once was, he folded the cotton napkin over his left knee, took up knife and fork, and sliced a delicate sliver off of the quail on the plate before him.

Almost two hundred years had passed since he had tasted anything so fine. He hunted some in the outlying forests, when he was hungry enough to risk it. His kills were cooked in haste over a small hot fire; gamey meat burnt on the outside and still red inside as often as not. Some days he had been reduced to gleaning scraps from the rubbish heap; meat that was too tough or spoiled to be used in the next day's soup.

This, the gift Erestor had brought him, was a perfect blend of rich moist meat and simple yet flavorful herbs. He had forgotten that food could be so good. It was still warm. The juices spread over his tongue, the scent filled his head.

Tears prickled his eyes, that he had been given such a joyful moment. He could not swallow, and the candlelight blurred. He sat the fork on the edge of the plate, and pressed his hand to his lips to stop an undignified sound from escaping.

Erestor sat silent until he had regained his composure, at last chewing and swallowing the bite. Glorfindel raised his eyes to see the younger elf's worried ones.

"Are you well?" Like the food, this concern for his welfare was another thing that he had gone too long without.

"I am..." his voice was a bare whisper. He wanted to lie, to say he was fine, but found he could not. Not to Erestor. "I am overwhelmed," he admitted.

"I understand." Erestor's tone was encouraging. "Can I help in any way? Should I go?"

Glorfindel looked at Erestor's plate, the younger elf's food still untouched. He shook his head. "I will learn this," he said, "Though it may take some time."

Erestor nodded and took up his own fork and knife. They ate together in companionable silence.

When the meal was done, Glorfindel again walked Erestor back to his door.

"Tomorrow?" He asked, knowing that his heart's survival rested on the dark-haired elf's answer.

"Tomorrow." Erestor's smile warmed him to his core.

-

* * *

Light flared, sudden and hot, bright even through his closed eyelids. Herenecco cried out as he woke. In distress and surprise he lifted a hand to shield his face.

"Rise, Herenecco, and hear the judgment that has been passed upon you." The voice was not that of Elrond the healer or Elrond the gentle ruler of Imladris. It was the voice of Elrond, once-herald of the High-King, Elrond the war leader, Elrond the warrior.

With watering eyes, Herenecco made his way to his feet, weak from his days of bed-rest. He tried to stand at attention, but the light was so bright he could scarce open his eyes against it. It drove him down, threatened to crush him to his knees.

"I hear, my lord." His voice was as pitiful as his posture, and his cheeks burned with shame.

"You have been found guilty of assault, of attempted defilement, and of causing harm through poisoning. You will be sent forth from Imladris, to Lothlorien, where the lady Galadriel has offered to help you cleanse your troubled mind. You will abide there for as long as she deems necessary. You will not return to Imladris so long as Erestor chooses to reside here. Should he choose to travel to a place where you are, you will leave.

"This sentence shall remain in effect for the rest of your days on Arda. Should you choose to not accept these terms, word of your crimes will be sent to the far corners of the world. You will be exiled from all elven settlements and havens. Every hand will be raised against you for this misdeed. There will be no rest and no comfort among the lands of your kin. Do you understand?"

Herenecco stood as one mortally wounded. "I understand." He whispered, as the echoes of Elrond's voice faded from the room. "I will abide by this decision."

Gone...it was all gone from him; the life he had built here, his position, the respect of the guardians he had led. Erestor...he would never see Erestor again. He fell to his knees.

"You leave before dawn," were the last words his lord spoke to him.

-


	15. Fossil

Title: Golden Vanity

Series: none

Type: FPS

Chapter: 15?

Author: LadyJanelly

Email: R

Pairing: Erestor/Glorfindel

Warnings: Slash, violence

Disclaimer: No elves are my property. Writing not done for profit.

Beta: Nienna

Feedback: Gives me a reason to write and post instead of just playing with scenes in my head.

Archive: Please ask

Summary: Glorfindel, reborn, finds himself changed, and unwilling to risk another fall for the sake of his vanity.

_Gwirith (April) _

Erestor checked over the arrangements he had made for the evening meal. All was in readiness for their dinner, and he had set out the chess board in case Varyar may be persuaded to play a game or two afterwards. The lighting was dim, out of respect for the other's need for secrecy.

A fortnight had passed since the last time they ate together. The hooded elf had gone on a self-imposed mission to check the mountain passes for early thawing. He announced his return with a small stone left in the center of Erestor's desk before the workday began. It was dark, almost black, and into one side was pressed the skeleton of a strange leaf. The plant's profile was like nothing Erestor or even Elrond had seen in person or in books.

The thrill the discovery sent through Erestor was like nothing he had ever known either. He had struggled against grinning like an elfling and allowing himself to be distracted from his work. He had never dreamed he would miss another's presence the way he had missed Varyar.

A tiny tapping, like the sound a mouse might make, alerted Erestor to his guest's presence.

They ate together, and though Erestor could not see the other's smile, he could hear it often in the Quenya-touched voice. They spoke of the mountain passes, still frozen, the gift of the fossil-stone, and their common love of strategy games. When the meal was ended and the wine poured, they engaged each other over the chess board. Erestor could see how out of practice Varyar was in the first mach, which Erestor won without difficulty. The second match was more challenging, and the third he felt he won only because a rule had changed since Varyar had last played. While he offered to let Varyar re-move the piece, the older elf declined graciously, and the game was sat aside for the evening.

"Erestor?" The hooded one enquired as he sipped his wine. 

"Hm?" Erestor was tired, content, comfortable.

"Would it be impolite to ask for the second of the favors you have offered me before the year has passed?"

Erestor blinked. The question had been asked with such care and propriety. "No, of course not. What may I do for you?"

He could hear a hint of self-depreciating mirth in the other's voice. "I seem to have misplaced the ability to read. It has...been a while. Would you help me to remember?"

Erestor smiled and tipped his head. "It would be my pleasure." He hesitated, trying to find a tactful way to ask the question that came to mind. "How long _has_ it been since you last read?"

There was a moment of stillness, and Erestor knew he had overstepped the boundary. "Gondolin still stood," Varyar whispered. Without another word he moved to his feet, silent as the shadows that enveloped him, and stepped through the hidden door and out of Erestor's room.

_Lothron (May) _

Varyar's queen took Erestor's horse-knight, and the dark-haired elf frowned down at the board. The golden-haired elf was remembering the game more with every time they played it, and had begun to win more than half the times they played. His mind was as bright as his soul, a fact that Erestor appreciated. He narrowed his eyes and decided that he appreciated Varyar's bright mind except when Varyar was mercilessly slaughtering his pieces.

"I concede," Erestor said at last, seeing no way that he could emerge victorious.

"Again?" Asked Varyar, and together they reset the board. Erestor had been helping him to relearn the art of the written word, and the tension of that first discussion of the matter had faded. They did not speak of it, but it did not linger between them. They were comfortably silent as they played, until from nowhere, the hooded elf spoke.

"If you see Elrohir at weapon's practice, will you tell him that he's fighting too much with his spear's tip and not enough with the haft?"

Erestor moved one of his pawns. "Hm? I do not understand."

The hood moved, and Erestor could feel the eyes upon him. "I've seen him sparring with Elladan. He is blocking and grappling with the tip of his spear against the tip of Elladan's. They have equal leverage and Elladan is the stronger, so Elrohir will always lose. If he fights with the haft of his spear against the tip of Elladan's, he will have the greater leverage and more control over his opponent's weapon." He hesitated. "Should I show you?"

Erestor's lips twitched as he tried to restrain his smile of anticipation. The chance to see the elf that had killed so many orcs alone in motion was too exciting to let pass him by. "I would be delighted." He paused and looked around his room. While not small, it was unsuitable for a spear-fight. "Your chamber?"

"We will need practice weapons." Varyar moved to his feet, the game forgotten, and Erestor hoped that the anticipation he read in the other's voice was not his own imagining.

Erestor started on one side of the chamber, placing and lighting candle after candle around the sandy circle, Glorfindel on the other. While not bright, the flickering light was sufficient for them to see and spar by. Glorfindel almost laughed at their weapons of choice. A broom and a mop, stolen from the maid's closet along with the box of candles, had been pressed into service as spears. Not the ideal weapons, but they would do to illustrate his point.

With a formality that was almost humorous, the two fierce opponents crossed their cleaning implements and bowed to each other. Erestor dropped into a basic fighting stance, the plain end of his mop pointed towards his opponent. Glorfindel smiled as he settled into his own, more difficult yet more versatile stance. With the "point" of his spear pointed at the ground halfway between them and the bristles of the broom above his head, he was using the entire length of the haft as a very narrow shield.

He waited, and the younger, less patient elf broke first, lunging in a surprise stab at his midsection. Glorfindel's spear shot out, the shaft just beyond his hand catching the very tip of Erestor's weapon. He swept his tip around, the circle it was making growing with every degree of turn. By the time he had gone full circle, Erestor was off-balance, unguarded, and open when Glorfindel moved inside of his defense. He slid his lead hand up to just behind where the spear-head would be on a real weapon, and mimed a strike to Erestor's stomach, just touching the dark robes with the broom-handle.

He could see in Erestor's eyes the moment when the younger elf knew he would have died had this been actual combat. A mix of fear and joy sparked through him. He feared that Erestor would someday need to fight again, and would not have had this skill if not for this impromptu sparring match. The joy...the joy came from the light in the younger elf's eyes, the glow of his spirit, the blush across his cheeks. He was not the only one enjoying the thrill of competition.

"Again," he said, and once again the small cave echoed with the sound of wooden sticks hitting. Twice more he showed Erestor the disarm, and then showed him how to be the one in control. They went through the counter-moves and the counters to counters. He taught him the way of a formal duel and the dirty combat ways he would be free to use when fighting orcs or the like.

The lighter elf was a joy to teach, graceful and quick to understand the mechanics. He marveled that one who so obviously enjoyed the activity was seen so seldom on the practice yard.

With a hidden grin, Glorfindel stepped back and bowed. "Free-form," he instructed. "Win at any cost. Trust me to not let myself be harmed."

Erestor bowed and once again the dance began, graceful bodies moving in friendly competition.

It happened in a split-second. Glorfindel's hood fell low over his eyes, obscuring his vision for a moment. A thousand years' instinct as a warrior fought with two-hundred years' instinct to hide himself. Without a thought, he ducked out from under the threadbare cloth, blocking Erestor's next attack. He did not even know what he had done until he saw the younger elf's eyes, the shock they contained.

He felt his heart stop as he waited for the surprise to fade enough for Erestor to react to what he was, what he had become. He wanted to run. He wanted to die. He wanted to do anything but stand, to be recognized as Glorfindel of Gondolin, or ostracized for the hideous disfigurement. He did not want to watch his joy fall to ruin, and yet he chose to stay.


	16. Finale

A short author's note:

This fic, unfortunately, fell by the wayside when I hit one of my frequent changes of fandom. I had written the end, and was going back and writing the middle chapters, and never got around to it. Here, though, is the finale. Just--imagine some parts in the middle where G&E were sweet and romantic and got to know each other and stuff.

* * *

The footprints of the orc Glorfindel was following joined those of another pair, which in turn joined a group of six. When the number rose to a crowd too large to determine, moving parallel to Imladris' border, he knew that he must take measures to insure that they were confronted by the hidden city's guardians. The size of the group had grown much too large for a single elf to fight, even one who had slain a Balrog.

He was trying to get one good look at their numbers, some solid information to give to Erestor to help preserve the lives of the warriors that would be sent out to kill the foul creatures, when a scream came to him through the night. It was a young voice, high and filled with terror, and Glorfindel recognized it at once, despite the distortion that pain and panic had made. The orcs had caught the small caravan of entertainers as they left Imladris. He knew that from the scream. They had captured an elfling.

He knew he was making a tactically poor choice. He knew it was madness to try to fight so many. He could not win, and there were enough of the dark creatures to threaten his home, his lord and the elf that he loved if they struck with surprise. Despite that knowledge, he found himself moving forward towards the screams, sword in hand and his feet silent through the underbrush.

For all their fierceness and base cunning, orcs are an undisciplined lot. In the brief moment of reconnaissance that he took, Glorfindel saw that they had made a circle around the object of their torment in a large clearing by the forest path. All their yellow eyes were turned towards their captive, and between the dark and ragged forms, he saw a flash of white hair in the moonlight as the terrified child was shoved or chased around the center of the circle. Beyond the circle he could see an overturned wagon, one horse still alive in the traces but trapped by the weight of the wagon and the corpse of the other horse it shared a harness with.

He could see nothing of the adult elves that had left on this trip, and he sent up a silent prayer to the Valar for their spirits, for even if they lived, he had no hope of rescuing them.

Sliding through their shadows, he was among the orcs before they knew he existed. Two died to the silent sweep of his dagger. When stealth failed, he dropped the smaller blade and went to the strength of his sword. He was a warrior without living peer, and he waded through them, cleaving their twisted bodies. Black blood sprayed the air. In the moment of their panic he snatched the child, who was bleeding from dozens of tiny wounds, off of the ground and against his chest. Tiny hands clutched at his shoulders.

The orcs were quick to regroup, and he was halfway to the horse when the sting of sharpened steel ripped across his shoulder-blade. With a snarl he turned, slaying three of the fell beasts as he fought towards the edge of the group, desperate to not be surrounded.

A rusty halberd swept down towards the child, and it was all he could do to twist so the strike sliced the arm that held him instead of Lindir's skull. _Stab, twist, turn-duck-dodge. _The world was a blur and the fire of battle was singing through his senses. A wall of cheerful blue rose up beside him and he realized he was at the wagon. He leapt onto the back of the remaining horse, clutching the white mane with the arm he had wrapped around the elfling.

A spear stabbed deep into his thigh as he sliced the harness. The dull thump of an arrow struck his back as the terrified animal surged through the mass of orcs. His sword fell from his fingers as he covered the youngling with his body, urging the horse through the now-scattering orcs. For a heart-stopping moment its hooves slipped on the blood-soaked leaves but it did not go down.

The orcish shrieking and gibbering faded behind them. The horse didn't look like it would slow anytime soon, but he did manage to get it pointed back in the direction of Imladris.

Waves of pain washed over him, along with a dizziness that told of too much blood lost. Lindir whimpered in his arms, and all he could do for his comfort was to hold him closer and murmur soft words in Quenya against his hair.

An elvish voice called out to him to stop, as they neared The Last Homely House, but he doubted if he could control the horse. An arrow passed over his back, and he curled around the elfling, using his larger body as a shield. He would have shouted a warning, begged for sanctuary or identified himself as an elf, had he the strength to raise his voice.

The horse was blowing hard, sweat soaking its hide and foam slicking its neck. Still it ran like a mad thing. In a fall at such speed he would be unable to land with grace, and more important, he wouldn't be able to guarantee the child's safety. Already the tiny form was growing limp in his arms and he feared his sacrifice had been in vain.

Angry shouts echoed as they blurred through the gate-house. The hooves of their steed clattered against the cobbled courtyard, but the animal had more fear than sense. It spun around, still seeking to escape. An elf-sized archway passed by, too close, and the sound of stone beneath them changed to the clop of soft earth. The scents of the garden rose up, and the horse slowed, comforted by the calm of the place.

With a groan Glorfindel slid off of the animal's back. Moving the arrow in his back caused a wave of pain that threatened to take his sanity. His wounded leg wouldn't hold his weight, and he fell to the grassy ground, landing so that the elfling was on top of him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his throat so tight no sound could come forth. He could hear shouting from the outer courtyard. People were coming. Lindir would be cared for. Without his will, his instinct for secrecy overwhelmed him. He felt himself stumbling and crawling towards the secret passageway behind the rose trellis.

Deeper darkness enfolded him, safe and cool. He gave himself to it without a struggle.

* * *

The sounds of chaos woke Erestor; guardians were shouting in the courtyard, the sound of a horse galloping echoed through the covered walkways.

It was as if his years in Imladris had never existed, as if he had stepped off the battlefield yesterday and not close to two hundred years ago. His sword was in his hand, and he was striding through the halls towards the commotion, ready to fight whatever had shattered the peace of this night.

"There were two on the horse!" One of the guardians was insisting as Erestor reached the garden. The horse in question was standing head-down, breathing hard. It was covered in sweat and its back was spotted with a horrifying amount of bright red elven blood. Warriors milled around, searching for a target.

A cluster of healers swept out of the swirling chaos with a tiny body supported between them. Blood marked the small form, and Erestor felt a sinking in the depths of his stomach. "You!" He grabbed the sleeve of a guardian with some rank. "Find your captain. I want forty elves armed and armored and ready to ride at Elrond's command. The horse will be easy to track back to whatever has done this." The warrior was so surprised that he did not question the secretary's order and went off to find his superior.

He ordered the rest off, sending some to find Elrond, some to reinforce the gates against attack, some to protect the royal family. Someone took the horse away to the stables. The elves who were not warriors dissipated, many going with the guardians to prepare the gates for attack.

Only then did he do what he had most wanted to since he had entered the garden. He stepped behind the rose trellis and into Varyar's world.

He had not expected the reclusive elf to be so close to the entrance, and he nearly tripped on the tangle of long legs just inside the shadows. The smell of blood was heavy in the small passage. Fear twisting in his chest, he crouched beside the inert form.

He had never seen a living elf so grievously wounded. There was scarce a hand's span of skin or clothing that was not drenched in blood. The point of a crude orcish arrow protruded from just below his ribs. A deep gash on his arm oozed steadily. Erestor did not know where to begin treating such drastic hurts.

"Erestor..." the whisper was soft, and it caused Erestor great sorrow to realize that Varyar was still aware, with these injuries that must be so painful. "Forgive me, please forgive me...so much wasted. Again, wasted." Tears, hot and wet, slid down Erestor's cheeks. He pressed a blood-smeared hand to his lips. "I love you, Erestor. I should have been braver. I should have been wiser..."

"Be at ease," Erestor murmured, brushing a soothing hand over the fallen elf's forehead. "Be at ease, I will call a healer for you."

"No, please do not. I cannot be seen, I cannot be known...'tis only a scratch..." Eyes the color of spring skies were losing their focus.

"Damn you," Erestor hissed, torn between his need to take Varyar to a healer whether he willed it or no, and his respect for another's control over his own destiny. "Damn your vanity," he cursed. "Will you die for it?"

Pale eyelashes fluttered. "Varyar!" he shouted, not caring who might hear. He must have consent for this. His hand closed around the point of the arrow, and gave it the smallest twist. It broke his heart to cause the one he loved such pain, but he _must_ stay conscious.

The golden elf made a strangled cry, writhing as he made a mindless attempt to pull away from the pain. "Varyar, will you die for your vanity, or may I take you to a healer?"

Tears left tracks through the blood stains as the warrior wept. Pain and confusion and fear warred on the once-beautiful features. "Healer," he whispered at the end of his strength.

Praying that he was not causing further damage, Erestor slipped one arm beneath Varyar's knees, the other behind his shoulders, and carried him out into the light.

Elrond himself was striding across the gardens, heading for this secret passage, and Erestor could not imagine a better sight at this moment. "Elrond! Varyar, he's hurt. Valar, I have never seen so much blood!"

For the span of a heartbeat Elrond froze, grey eyes wide as he gazed down at the scarred and injured elf. "Here all along..." he whispered, and then seemed to free himself from the spell he was under.

The hours until dawn became a blur of blood and light as Varyar was taken to the healing house. It took all of Elrond's skill and no small use of his magic to ensure at last that the golden-haired elf would not pass into the halls of Mandos. Through it all, Erestor stayed at his side, holding onto his limp hand whenever he could.

"I have done all I can," Elrond informed him as he cleaned the last of the blood off of Varyar's hands. "His survival is up to the Valar and his own desire to live."

Erestor, numb and exhausted, still noticed the strange look his lord gave the sleeping elf before he stepped away. "I will return again at mid-day. Send for me should his situation change."

* * *

Awareness toyed with Glorfindel. Teasing snatches of sound or smell would brush against his senses. The quality of light beyond his closed eyelids changed, as if a candle was brought close then taken away again, but he could not find the strength to open them. He struggled to wake, and pain wrapped itself around him like leather bands, making it hard to breathe, to think. With regret he allowed consciousness to slip away from him again. He was safe and known, or he was hidden and dying, and neither situation would be changed by him waking at this time.

Thirst woke him the next time. He had no way of telling how much time had passed. He coughed and tried to rise, and Erestor helped him to lift his head enough to drink.

"Rest," the dark-haired elf urged him when he was done. "All is well, Glorfindel. Rest."

He tried to fight, to question the use of a name he had not heard in so long, but the room slipped away from him and he was once again engulfed by darkness.

* * *

A small warmth was pressed to his left side, the stir of another's breath against his elbow a strange distraction from the world of sleep and dreams. Curiosity got the better of him. With a ridiculous amount of effort, his opened his eyes and looked down. The sight of Lindir's white hair greeted him, and he lay back again. Tears slipped down his cheeks, tears of relief that the child was alive, that his pain had not been wasted.

"Shhh..." The tears were wiped away by gentle fingers. "Shhh, are you in pain? Should I move Lindir?" Erestor had not abandoned him.

"No..." The word was thick and heavy in his throat. "No, leave him be. He is...well?"

A strand of hair was brushed from his forehead. "His body is almost healed from his trials. His heart though, has felt more pain than many will ever know."

Glorfindel swallowed and closed his eyes once more. So many questions fluttered through his mind, leaves on a windy autumn day.

"Erestor," he whispers, "My third boon. May I have permission to court you?"

Those grey eyes narrow, the oddest smile flirts along Erestor's soft lips. "Is that not what we have been doing this past year?" He draws Glorfindel's hand up and brushes light kisses over his fingertips.

"Courtship is for those who are unsure where their hearts are leading them," the young elf murmurs. "Marry me instead."

"If you will have me," Glorfindel answers, "I will cherish you to the end of days."

And then Erestor is leaning low over him, and their lips touch for the first time.

Glorfindel is lost, and found, and at long last, home.


End file.
